Blargh.

Yesterday, my coworker had something for lunch that smelled like stew. It smelled awesome. My appetite has been vanished for most of this week, so this was great! Stew! Something I wanted to eat! I bought stew meat and stock and carrots.

Made stew tonight.

Stew. Eh.

Curse you, pregnancy-induced fickle appetite!

Side effects may include

Being an overachieving Type A has some things to recommend it. I get a lot done.

But it sucks that you can't turn it off. Tonight is my turn to have unstructured me-time, and the best thing I could find to do with it was: play solitare, refresh assorted email accounts and bulletin boards repeatedly, and read waaaay too many Junk Food Science articles. (Way to feel like the sky is falling, there.) And it really, deeply bothers me that I haven't, instead, worked on music or poetry or some other "worthwhile, productive" project.

I have at least stopped doing chores on my "night off." (Cleaning imposes order, which gives a sense of control, which makes me feel sane, and it's hard for me to say, for some reason, "Can you watch the Spud for fifteen minutes while I scrub the bathroom?" any other night of the week, and I do feel better about getting something "worthwhile, productive" done... but then I sulk about "having" to use my free time to do it. So I stopped, hurray.)